The Benefit of the Doubt
by S. Faith
Summary: Bridget's looking for a little change moving forward, but to Mark it feels more like a step back.


**The Benefit of the Doubt**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 22,120  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary: Bridget's looking for a little change moving forward, but to Mark it feels more like a step back.  
Disclaimer: Isn't mine.  
Notes: **Book universe**. Let's pretend that for some reason Mark and Bridget had not gone away as suggested at the end of _EOR_.

* * *

"What's the matter?"

It was dark and very quiet, and since he thought she'd been asleep, her voice startled him a little. He didn't know how to answer. "Nothing," he answered, but it was unconvincing even to his own ears.

He'd been seeing her, sleeping with her, for over eighteen months, save for a little break the previous summer due to what could most delicately be called a misunderstanding. He was happy in every way, except for, well, when things such as what had happened earlier that evening, happened: the combination of a formal dinner with his colleagues and Bridget's unrestrained tongue had proved a disaster yet again. It had been a discussion on more than one occasion, had led to arguments even more frequently, just as it had done earlier. It hadn't been too serious of an argument—it never was—and they had made up more than adequately, but it had still continued to unsettle him.

There was no getting around the fact that despite his love for her, she was very different than him, she disdained the people in his society… and this was going to continue to prove a challenge in their relationship.

"Mark," she said again. She shifted and turned over to look at him; he could just make out her features in the dim of the room. "You're a terrible liar."

It occurred to him that she too had still been awake if she knew he wasn't sleeping. "Bridget, what's keeping _you_ up?"

She sighed. "I wasn't going to say anything, but you're obviously troubled too." She paused, then added, her tone wistful, "I was just thinking."

He felt slightly tense; his mind immediately jumped to the conclusion that he was about to be chucked. "What about?"

"Well," she continued, "I think… I think we might never be able to make our differences work in a proper relationship. But. Before you get the wrong idea—"

"Too late," he said icily.

"Oh, Mark," she said repentantly, drawing her fingers over his chest. "I had an idea that I think you'll like."

He thought briefly that he'd probably love any idea that didn't involve splitting up. "What?"

"Take a step back. Friendship."

"How is that not splitting up with me?" he retorted.

"Mark, hear me out." She snuggled closer, rather negating the concept of 'friends only'. "Friends… well. With benefits."

He cocked a brow. "What are you saying? We'd still sleep together?"

She shrugged. "Occasionally. Yes. No commitment or expectations, just the closeness of our friendship, and sex when we want it."

"It sounds like a cop-out," he said. "The, er, benefits of a relationship without the hard work that's involved."

"It would take the pressure off," she said, her expression sad. "I know how hard I can make things for you at times."

He felt immediately sorry for mentally placing the blame for all of their social issues on her, and reached up to stroke her face. "You don't, Bridget."

"You're a terrible liar," she said again. "I can tell when I've annoyed or disappointed you."

"But _this_ isn't necessary. It's certainly not a solution, Bridget."

She turned her eyes down. "I thought if we could take that pressure off…. Well, I think that if we go on as we have been, sooner or later we'll just end up breaking up forever."

"Is it just about going to these events with me? Because you don't have to if you don't want."

"That's not really any different that what I'm suggesting."

"What you're suggesting is—" He stopped. It wasn't that different, he realised; perhaps she just felt guilty that he wasn't free to bring someone else to those events, even though he would not want to in a hundred years. "—well, it's something I'll need to think about."

"Okay." She laid back down, resting her cheek on the pillow beside him, then she reached forward to kiss him, once lightly, the second time a little longer, the third time long and lingering and exploding into passionate snogging that led to them making love once more.

As he drifted to sleep at last, he considered her proposition. He thought the idea ridiculous, but if it made her happy, he might just do it. After all, he was sure of her love for him, of her desire for him, if what had just happened was any indication. Likely this would be an extremely temporary state, that within a week or two everything would just be back to the way it was, and not some silly 'friends with benefits' status.

In the meantime, however, he would take advantage of the benefits; he drew his hand over her arse and squeezed it gently, the last thing he remembered doing before nodding off.

…

He told her that next morning that he would be willing to give it a try. With a grin she kissed him, then he left her place to head home to change then to go off to work. He didn't hear from her that day, thought that in the spirit of the somewhat parallel move to 'friends with benefits' he would not himself feel required to call her. Without a doubt he missed her, but sometimes one just needed space to think.

A few days later, en route to his home, he thought briefly how odd it seemed to not have plans with Bridget on a Friday night. As he thought it, his mobile began to ring. He answered the call with the hands-free option. "Mark Darcy speaking."

"Mark, hi, it's Bridget."

He grinned. "Hi, Bridget. How are you?"

"I'm well…" she said. She sounded a little distracted. "And you?"

"Just on my way from work."

"Oh," she said. "Have you eaten yet?"

He tried not to laugh aloud at the thought that she hadn't even lasted the week in this changed status. "I haven't."

"Oh," she said again. "Yeah. I haven't either."

He knew to what she was hinting, but he was going to make her ask. "Ah," he said. "Starving, myself. Haven't had a bite since lunch."

"Mm," she said. "I was wondering if you want to get together for supper. If you're free, I mean."

He rolled to a stop at a red light. His voice was all nonchalance as he answered. "Oh, yes, I'm free."

"I was hoping you might say that," she said. "You want to pick up some takeaway and meet me there? At my flat, I mean?"

"Sounds great," he said, signalling right. "Thai?"

"Oh, still can't bear Thai," she said. "Chinese wouldn't go wrong though."

"All right. See you then."

He got what he knew to her favourite, a chicken, vegetable and fried noodles dish, while he ordered the beef and snow peas. He suspected that they would end up trading half and half as per usual. He arrived to her building before she did—as evidenced by the fact that she did not answer when he rang the bell—so he pulled out his key fob and opened the door to let himself in, stripping off his jacket and removing his tie.

He poured himself a glass of red and was just opening a chilled bottle of white for her when the door opened. "I'm already here," he called so not to startle her.

"Oh, hi, thought I smelled food." He could hear her throw down her holdall, heard her footfalls as she approached, then saw her as she turned the corner into the kitchen. He was pouring the wine as she entered. "For me? Thanks." She accepted it, wasting no time in taking a long sip. "Ugh, what a day."

"Busy?"

"Big production meeting with my arch enemy." He knew she was talking about Richard Finch, and her position as creative consultant with Cinnamon Productions. "My ideas are always better, but he's the boss and is therefore always right."

"I'm sorry." He picked up his glass and sipped. "I brought your favourite."

Gingerly cradling her own glass, she went over and held her arms out. "Could really use a hug," she said.

He could have used one too, but wasn't sure if he should presume he could have one. Setting his glass down once more, he enfolded her in his arms. The scent of her perfume immediately struck him with how much he'd missed being close to her.

"Mmm, much better," she said, raking her nails on his back.

"Agreed."

She pulled back. "Well. Let's eat, shall we? Maybe watch a film or some telly or something?"

He grabbed their cartons and his wine and together they went over to the sofa. She switched on the television, then plopped down in her usual place. He handed her a carton and a pair of bamboo chopsticks.

"Thanks." She looked with interest at the remaining carton. "Beef and peas again?" He sat beside her, tilting the carton so she could see. "Of course," she grinned. "Always your favourite."

"Happy to share," he said.

As predicted, they ended up trading about half of the other's dish as they watched some silly dating game show she liked. He loved the spicy hit to the palate that the noodle dish offered; it was not a dish he ever would have considered ordering on his own. In all frankness, he liked sharing it with her very much.

The show ended and some silly movie came on; they each had a little bit too much wine and ended up playfully kissing, which turned into hot and heavy kissing, caressing and teasing.

"Bridget," he panted, his hand at the waistband of her trousers; they were suddenly in the middle of the benefits of which she'd spoken, but he didn't want make assumptions.

"Oh," she said. "Right." She sat up, composing herself. "We should just go use the bed."

With his hand in hers, she got to her feet and tugged him to follow. He offered no resistance; he couldn't have, with as much as he wanted her.

He never had been able to quite quantify what it was about her that drove him so wild; certainly she was attractive, but it was much more than just that for him, an indefinable visceral chemistry over which he had little control. When they got to the bedroom, that chemistry took over and they fell down on the bed. He began kissing and caressing her again in earnest, pushing her shirt up and off, her jeans down and onto the floor. He wasn't sure what had possessed him—perhaps the feeling that it might be the last time she'd agree to have sex with him—but his enthusiasm and vigour spurred equal levels in her, and as they reached climax they were responding to one another quite vocally, indeed. Afterwards he buried his face in her neck, kissing her throat, running his hand over her stomach to brush against her breast.

"Mm," she intoned low in her throat. "Are you going to stay over?"

He was not one to refuse, though the fact she was asking was curious. He couldn't think of a time when he had not stayed over after they'd made love. In response, he murmured, "Mm-hm."

"Oh, goody," she said, then pushed herself to find his mouth to kiss him again.

They stayed up far too late; it reminded Mark of when they'd first gotten together, eager to learn everything about the other in the most intimate way possible. He woke with her in his arms, her hair tickling his nose, sunlight bathing the foot of the bed.

If being 'friends with benefits' could infuse their relationship with such a sense of trouble-free happiness, he wondered with why they hadn't thought to do it sooner.

She stirred. He kissed her earlobe, whispered, "Morning."

She sighed contentedly. "Morning. Oh. What time is it?" She turned over to look at the clock. "Oh, bugger, I've got a date." He must have looked as absolutely stricken as he felt, for she smiled at him, touched the tip of his nose with her fingertip. "A _shopping_ date. With Magda and the children. They're stopping by to pick me up."

"Oh," he said, then laughed, feeling foolish. He knew full well she was incapable of acting so callously. "I'll make some coffee," he offered as she rolled out of bed.

"Thanks," she said, stumbling out of the bedroom with the sheet wrapped around her. "I have _got_ to shower."

He would have preferred the shower with her, to be honest, but had already promised to get the coffee on. He pulled on his trousers and tee shirt, then padded to her kitchen. Just as he poured in the boiling water, her buzzer began to ring. He figured it was Magda so he went to answer the entryphone.

"Hello?"

There was a beat. "Mark?"

"Yes," he said. He didn't understand why she sounded so surprised.

"Oh, hi," she said, sounding almost nervous. "Is Bridget there?"

"She's in the shower. Want to come on up?"

She hesitated again. "Sure. It's not… you know, a problem, is it?"

"Why would it be a problem?"

"Nothing," she said, with an unconvincing chuckle. "Sure, buzz us in."

After doing so, he went to pull on the rest of his clothes in some semblance of being decent. He popped his head into the loo to let her know Magda was here, which garnered a soft curse from beyond the shower curtain. When he went back out into the main part of the flat, he heard a commotion from the hallway outside the front door, so he went to let them in.

"Hi Mark," she said with a smile. In tow were Constance (who clearly recognised him and offered a smile) and Harry; in her arms was the baby, who had grown much since Mark had seen him last. He was embarrassed to realise he did not remember the baby's name.

"Hi Magda," he said. "Come on in. Bridget's still getting ready." They all came up into the flat; Constance reached for Mark's hand. "Care for some coffee?"

"Thank you, but no; still off of coffee. Still breastfeeding."

"Mark?" came Constance's quiet little voice.

"Yes?" he asked. The girl still held his hand.

"Did you and Auntie Bridget have a sleepover party?" She was looking pointedly at his bare feet.

Mark felt his face go crimson at this innocent question. He met Magda's gaze and realised she appeared to be equally embarrassed. "Um," he began, not knowing quite how to answer, "we had supper last night and I fell asleep here, yes."

"A party," Constance reiterated, beaming. "Will you put on Pingu, please?"

He looked at Magda, who nodded slightly. "Sure. I think Auntie Bridget will need a little more time."

He found the Pingu recording buried under several other films, and the children sat in rapt fascination at the screen after he got it going. Magda accompanied him to the kitchen while he fixed his own coffee. "They've seen it hundreds of times," said Magda confidentially, "yet you'd never know it."

He grinned, picking up his coffee and sipping.

"So…" she continued. "Bridget and you. She mentioned something about… being friends."

"Yes," he said.

"Yet… here you are."

He wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. "Here I am." After a moment it occurred to him why the hesitation and awkwardness, so he added, "It was her idea."

"What was?"

"The 'being friends' status."

"Friends plus something a little extra," Magda said.

"Well, yes," he confirmed, flushing anew. "Her idea."

Magda regarded him somewhat sceptically. "Oh."

He heard Bridget call from the back of the flat. "Magda!"

"Excuse me," she said with a smile, then headed to see what her friend wanted, leaving Mark wondering exactly why she'd seemed so doubtful.

He took his cup of coffee to where the children were watching the video, and found himself falling into a trance of sorts watching. He blamed it on lack of sleep, particularly when his eyes drifted closed, at least until he felt the sofa sink slightly beside him. He looked and saw Constance had taken a seat.

"I have a question," she said very sombrely.

"What it is?"

"Are we supposed to call you 'Uncle Mark'?"

He smiled, running his hand over her ginger hair. "You don't have to, no."

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "Bridget's not my real aunt but we call her 'Auntie', so I'm going to call you 'Uncle Mark'."

Her logic was flawless. He smiled, though felt a little wistful. "You may call me that if you like."

She smiled. "I will."

She turned her attention back to the video, resting against him, at least until Magda and Bridget emerged from the back of the flat, when she leapt from the sofa and over to Bridget.

"Hello my darling girl," said Bridget, crouching to give her little goddaughter a hug. "How are you?" She glanced up to where Constance had just been sitting and saw Mark. "Ah, watching Pingu with Mark?"

"_Uncle_ Mark," she corrected sternly.

Bridget's eyes went wide in amused surprise. "Oh, really?" She looked to Mark.

"It was her idea," Mark said, parroting himself from just a bit ago.

Bridget released Constance's embrace and rose to her full height again. "Let me get some coffee to go and we can leave," she said to Magda, then looked to Mark. "You can let yourself out, right?"

He nodded, getting to his own feet. Magda crouched to pick up the baby as little Harry sucked his thumb and continued watching. Mark followed Bridget to the kitchen; he wanted some more coffee, but mostly he wanted to say goodbye without Magda or Constance watching his every move.

"Have a good day shopping," he said, coming to stand beside her.

"Oh, we will," she said with a smile, dumping sugar into her coffee travel mug. "Thanks for making coffee. I _really_ need it." She screwed on the lid then looked to him. "And thanks for coming over last night. It was fun. I'll talk to you soon."

Her manner of speaking seemed dismissive, and he felt a little wounded. "Okay."

She smiled crookedly, then got up onto her toes and pecked a quick kiss on his lips. "I mean it."

He smiled in return. "I know."

"Auntie Bridget!" cried Constance. "Come on!"

She turned and called back, "On my way, promise!" To Mark she said, "Feel free to use the shower before you go if you like."

He nodded, and with that she headed to the front room. He heard them all go, but he could only keep wondering why she felt the need to keep giving him permission… and what exactly it had meant when she had said 'it was fun'.

…

They met again on Sunday for a late lunch, during which Mark got the full rundown on the shopping excursion with the children. "'Run down' was exactly how I felt afterwards," she lamented. "My feet were killing me and I think I fell asleep within moments of hitting the mattress. By the way…" She drifted off, digging into her purse. "Well, shit. You left your tie and I meant to bring it, but I forgot. I know it's your lucky court tie."

He had never referred to it as such, but she had christened it so. "I'll just come up and get it when I bring you home."

Even as he said it he had a feeling where it might lead, particularly after a good lunch and even better conversation… and she was always sexiest when she was least trying to be. When she placed the tie in his hands, brushed her fingers down along his, their eyes met, the charge of mutual attraction sparked to maximum, and before he knew it they were kissing as if they hadn't in weeks.

Dropping the tie, he brought his hands up under her backside just as she jumped up and encircled his waist with her legs, driving home just how rapidly his desire for her had built. She chuckled, raking her nails through his hair as she teased his lips with her tongue and teeth. His fingers pressed hard into the beautiful, light and easily circumvented fabric of the dress covering her arse.

He didn't wait to get to the bed to have her, and she certainly voiced no objections, though future meals at her kitchen table would likely either prompt amusement or embarrassment.

"Oh, _God_, I needed that," she breathed hotly into his neck afterwards. "All the tension of the weekend, poof, gone like that."

He couldn't say he disagreed, though it was taking every ounce of strength he had remaining to not collapse forward onto the most uncomfortable wooden table. Instead he pulled away from her, getting unsteadily upright again, grasping the waistband of his trousers to keep them from sliding down. In looking upon her as she sat with her knees parted, her dress draped over and between them, her hair wild and dishevelled, he suddenly wasn't sure he was ready to leave her just yet.

"What?" she asked, her expression one of deviltry.

"Nothing at all," he responded. "Just thinking we might benefit from a softer surface."

Within moments of lighting upon the sofa they were making out like a couple of teenagers, his hands up and under her dress in no time at all. It did seem that having completely lifted the pressures of their relationship was acting upon both of them like some aphrodisiac. He preferred to think that was the case, anyway; otherwise there was no good explanation to why was he now planting upward-moving kisses upon her inner thigh.

"_Jesus_," she said afterwards between breaths, as he planted a trail of kisses starting from the point of the vee of her collar between her breasts and up to her throat. "I think you might have left marks there."

It was true that he had pressed his fingers quite firmly into her bottom as he worked to satisfy her, but even still, it was something of an exaggeration. He drew his hands over her arse again. "Nope. As I suspected. Smooth as ever."

She laughed, then drew her nails through his hair once more and sighed. "You can… you know," she said, kissing his mouth, referring to his own satisfaction. "If you need to." She made a sound that quite resembled a purr. "Or I could do it for you."

He should have resisted, but he'd never had the power to resist her talents, and merely did not object when she pushed upon his chest to lean him back against the arm of the sofa, felt his eyes close and a moan escape his throat as she focused her attentions on him. With her hands on his hips and quite delicious pressure on his person, she handily took care of his needs.

She straddled his lap afterwards, stroking his face, kissing the juncture of jaw and throat as he panted for air. She drew her fingers down over the thumping pulse in his neck before kissing that too. "I am glad you liked that," she said.

Unintelligibly he admitted that he always did.

"You're very cute when you're insensible," she said, stretching her legs out along his, then snuggling into him. He brought his arms up and around her to embrace her. "Mmm," she said. "Are you able to stay for dinner?"

He suddenly recalled that he had preparation to do for court the next day. "I can't," he said, not because he couldn't, but because he shouldn't; 'dinner with Bridget' always seemed to turn into 'sex into the wee hours with Bridget', whether they were in a relationship, or merely friends with very specific perks, as Friday night had proved.

"Oh," she said. "Okay." She snuggled into him more firmly. "Well, just a bit more of a hug to get me through Monday."

He chuckled. "Another meeting with Finch?"

"Yes," she said. "Or rather, the continuation of the same meeting. He emailed me to tell me he didn't feel he had gotten what he wanted, even though we all agreed at the end the direction to next move forward in. He's an idiot."

"Yes he is," he said, "if he doesn't appreciate your genius."

She made a smugly satisfied little sound. "Not that you're biased or anything."

"Me? Never. I've always thought you were a genius. I have never known anyone else to think to make a terra cotta oil burner take in milk."

"Chuh," she said. "Now you're just taking the piss."

He kissed the crown of her head. "Would never joke about your genius."

She chuckled, then sighed. "You must never tell Shaz," she said after a moment, "but I think _you're_ my best friend."

"I know you're mine," he said softly, and it was true; he could open up to no one else the way he did to her. He reached up and stroked her hair, considered what court would bring the next day, and made an executive decision. "And you know, I think I can stay for dinner with you, after all."

They had a great deal of fun making pasta supper together; he pointed out the best way to drain the pasta so that it didn't turn into a white, floury, soupy mess. They ate with their respective glasses of wine, watched a bit of television, before the crucial moment came where she turned to him as they sat nestled on the sofa. He might have been able to choose work over some other women, but he had never been good at choosing work over her.

As she leaned in to kiss him, she paused to stroke her fingertips on his cheek. "Can you stay?"

He nodded. He knew she meant overnight.

She leaned in and kissed him. "Good," she said, resting her cheek down on his chest. He must have fallen asleep, they both must have, because the next thing he knew he awoke to darkness sometime in the middle of the night. He smiled tenderly, reached for the remote and switched off the telly. "Bridget," he whispered. She only made a soft grunting sound. He decided he would just carry her off to bed whether he had her participation or not.

He slipped out from beneath her then gingerly gathered her up into his arms. She woke long enough to shift in his arms to more easily accommodate his carrying her. He sat her down on the bed, pulled her dress up and over her head, then tucked her in. After undressing himself, he climbed in bed beside her, spooning up to her back, holding her as he joined her again in slumber.

…

The following morning was much the same as workday mornings had always been. He made some coffee with which to wake her, they talked a little in bed about their upcoming respective days. Mark offered advice to her for getting what she wanted out of her meeting with her former boss and current creative adversary, and she in turn gave him suggestions for what he needed to accomplish in his case, something he might never have thought on his own.

"I should go," he said, rising from the bed to search for his clothes. "Have to go home before work, otherwise I won't be fit to be seen at the office."

"Mmm," she said, amusement in her tone; he could feel her eyes on him as he slipped his trousers back on, did the zip and the button, then put on his shirt. "Let me know how it goes."

"You do the same."

He sat on the bed to put his socks back on, then leaned over, said "Goodbye", and kissed her quickly on the lips.

"Bye," she said.

He made sure he had his keys and mobile, then slipped into his shoes and headed to the flat door. "Don't fall back to sleep," he called back over his shoulder.

"I won't," she called in return.

After court, when lunch came and went then the lot of his colleagues came by to say good night, Mark realised he had gone his entire day without a phone call from Bridget. It was rare that on a work day he wouldn't hear from her, particularly if they had slept together the night before; she had always seemed to enjoy discussing their intimate encounters, seemed intent on torturing him with reminding him how lovely their shagging (her term, not his) had been.

He realised he sort of missed it.

He had hoped to at least hear from her regarding her meeting with Finch, but when three days had gone by and he had not, he thought it might behove him to call and see how things were with her.

"'Allo?"

Mark was stunned. It was a man answering Bridget's line.

"Well, who's there then?" the man's voice went on, rough and Cockney-accented.

"This is Mark Darcy. I'm looking for Bridget. Is she there?"

There was a silence. "Oh, it's Mark, is it?" he asked. "Lemme see if she's still in the shower." Mark had no time to ask who this man was, one with whom she was comfortable enough to have there while she showered, but there was a great thump as he set the phone down, audible stomping then a loud, "Bridget! Call for you!"

A matter of moments passed before he heard her considerably lighter footfalls, then she swept the phone up and said, "Hello?"

"Bridget, it's Mark," he said, rather more brusquely than intended. Mentally he took a step back. "Who was that?"

"Oh, nobody," she said. "Where have you been?"

"Me?" he asked. "I've been… wait a minute, what do you mean, where have I been?"

"I expected you to call me to let me know how court went," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I fell into a mountain of work, and I expected you would call me if you wanted to talk."

"You can call me too, you know," she said playfully. She had a point. "So how was your court thing?"

He smiled. "It wasn't bad. How about your meeting?"

"Oh," she said. "Well, I missed the meeting. I… ended up falling back asleep."

He laughed. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Oh, hush," she said, but he could tell she was smiling. "Anyway, it all worked out for the best, because he thought I was just rebelling, and when he called me, I just explained that we had already decided on a direction. So he just accepted what we'd already agreed to. Made my life easier, not having to take the trouble of getting myself all the way down to the office."

"Glad it worked out in the end the way you wanted it to," he said. He could hear that male voice chatting in the background, and he realised she'd dodged his question about her visitor. "So I was thinking it'd be nice to see you. I'll come over. What do you say?"

"Oh, umm," she said. "The place is a mess."

"Bridget, when have I ever cared about that?"

"True," she said after a moment With a decidedly brighter tone, she added, "Sure, come over. Bring pizza."

"All right. See you shortly."

He phoned the pizza order in advance, and hoped he could get there quickly enough to intercept her visitor. He wasn't. Her place was no messier than usual, though he did notice there were stacks of books on the floor—and noticed then that the mad, asymmetrical bookshelves were gone. As she got down plates for them to put the pizza on, he asked, "Where'd the shelves go?"

"Hm?"

"Your shelves."

"Oh," she said. "They had to go. I couldn't stand them anymore, and it was just a big reminder of Bulletman."

He grinned. He thought of the gaping hole in the wall carved out by Gary Wilshaw for the infill extension, how he'd pleaded with her to allow him to pay for the fix, and how she had insisted she would do it on her own with the money she'd already borrowed for the job. "Well, I'm sure whatever you replace it with will be an improvement."

"I could staple the books to the wall and it would be an improvement," she mused, then handed him a plate. "Here you are. Want some wine?"

Ordinarily his answer would have been a yes, but he realised that every visit to her in this new relationship status had landed the two of them in bed, and that alcohol had been involved. "I think I'll pass," he said. "Just have some water."

"Oh," she said. "Sure."

While they ate their pizza they chatted about the same sort of day-to-day stuff they always had; she mentioned a new segment she was thinking of proposing, which Mark supported wholeheartedly, and he told her (in generic terms) about some of the cases he would be bringing to court in the near future.

It was his own yawn that made him aware of the time. "Oh, it's almost ten-thirty," he said, stretching his arms up, then tilting his head side to side to work the cricks out of his neck. "I'd better go. Busy day tomorrow."

As he stood, she rose too. "I'm glad we did this," she said with a smile.

"Me too," he replied.

He hugged her, kissed her cheek, said close to her ear, "Talk to you soon."

"Okay," she said in return.

It wasn't until he was down on the street that he realised he hadn't needed to make excuses to leave despite wanting to stay in her company; she had not offered even a non-verbal invitation to stay the night. He hated jumping to conclusions, but on the heels of the mysterious male visitor, did this mean she had cultivated romantic feelings for someone else already? Was this the reason she had made the suggestion of being 'only friends' in the first place?

As he made his way home driving through the streets of London, he had time to think also about how much he missed just sleeping with her near; missed her soft, sweet smell, the warmth of her body next to his, the reassuring sound of her slow and steady breathing. He even missed the occasional kick to the shin she'd often deliver.

His bed seemed especially lonely that night.

…

As the days passed, it occurred to him that he was not hearing from Bridget; rather, he was the one reaching out to her. He phoned her a few times to hear her friendly voice, but as she nearly always opened the conversation by letting him know she was about to go out (for a drink with the girls, for dinner with Tom, and so forth), they never went beyond talking, and only about trivial matters at that.

He realised with a sense of dread that another formal dinner event was fast approaching, this to honour one of the judges with whom he was acquainted, for outstanding service to Queen and Country. The dread was not due to the dinner itself, but braving it on his own. He didn't want to ask Bridget; he knew she hated these things and knew it was a contributing factor to their change in status.

The night of the dinner was when she'd apparently decided it was all right to call him again.

"Hi, Mark," she said, just as he was buttoning his suit jacket and reaching for his car keys.

"Can't talk," he said. "Just leaving."

There was a beat before she spoke again. "Oh," she said. "Where are you going?"

"Dinner," he said. "I'm sorry, I'm running late. I'll talk to you soon."

Only as he disconnected the call did he realise she might misinterpret this to mean he had some kind of date. He hardly had the time to phone back to explain.

When he got to the restaurant, he noticed that more than one of his colleagues were looking at him askance. "Where's that lady of yours?" asked one of them. He was surprised they were asking.

"She, um, couldn't make it."

"Pity," said Horatio with a smirk. "Might not agree with her leftie views but I always find her entertaining."

Mark was not sure how he felt about Bridget being referred to as 'entertaining'; he could not tell exactly in which way Horatio meant it, as endearing or as in something attractive on which to feast their eyes.

"She certainly always knows how to keep you on your toes," added Louise. "I don't think any among us can claim the same."

He found himself wondering exactly what Louise meant, too. He had been so concerned about whether Bridget could tolerate his colleagues that he never considered they might more than tolerate her.

They were herded to their respective tables in a reserved area of the restaurant. The empty chair beside him made him feel like a spotlight was being shone on him. They were brought appetisers and wine, and he engaged in small talk before several of the attendees there stood and said nice things about the judge in the most dreadfully longwinded way possible. He found his thoughts were drifting though, drifting to the wry comments and witty observations Bridget might have been whispering into his ear were she there: how this one wasn't fooling anyone with the court-wig-like hairpiece he wore; how that one must have applied her foundation with a trowel, as thick as it was. He tried not to smirk at her imagined commentary, though, because it was completely inappropriate, and he did not want to have to explain himself.

As the night wore on, Mark kept having the oddest sensation that someone's eyes were upon him. Casually he swung his gaze around trying to find a potential source. It did not take long. There, a table over, occupying the seat besides Giles, was Rebecca. He had seen Giles earlier as they were filing in, but had assumed he'd come alone, just as Mark had. Rebecca must have arrived late. His eyes met hers and he offered a polite smile. She smirked in a really disturbing way. Obviously she had deduced that Mark was there alone.

After dinner, after the speeches, people began to get up and circulate with their coffees and dessert. Giles, who had been part of the committee to arrange this, was occupied with the details of the evening, which meant that Rebecca was free to try to ingratiate herself back into Mark's good books. She wasted no time trying to do so.

"Mark." He smelled her cloying perfume before he saw her. He turned to face an almost predatory Rebecca, long curtain of silky hair down and swinging gently as she tilted her head, just as she must have known it would do. "All by yourself? What a pity."

"Yes," he said. "Bridget couldn't make it."

Rebecca tsked him and gave him a knowing smile. "Mark, you don't have to lie to me. I heard what happened. So flighty, that one. Never has been able to commit. Probably already has her eye on someone else." She clucked her tongue. "I tried to warn you."

He tried to remind himself that Rebecca had one agenda and one agenda only, despite still being paired with hapless Giles: to drive a wedge between Bridget and himself. He knew she'd chuck Giles in a heartbeat, poor soul, if she thought she could sink her hooks back into Mark.

"I don't know what you've heard," he said, "but I doubt it's the whole truth."

"You didn't ask her," Rebecca said, "because you know she hates these things. Admit it, Mark. She doesn't fit in." She drew in closer, placed her hand on his jacket sleeve. "Have you ever, you know… thought about what I said at Jude's wedding?"

He thought back to her speech at the December reception, where Rebecca had insinuated that she alone was really the one with whom he was destined to end up in the long term. "Oh yes," he said. "I have." It might have been cruel for him to be so deliberately vague, particularly when he saw her eyes light up in her presumption that he now agreed with her assessment, but he paused anyway. "My feelings on the subject are unchanged."

She was not quick enough to hide her look of disgust. "Oh, Mark," she said, affecting a disappointed tone.

"And there's the matter of Giles, my friend and colleague," he went on. "If you really are so wrong for one another as you intimated then, why do you continue to stay with him?"

"I already explained that," she said.

"Yes, you did," he said, keeping his voice low. "If I remember correctly, you're only seeing Giles to make me realise my feelings for you. Well, it worked, but not in the way you expected. I now see you as you really are: a cold-hearted and cruel woman. You're unlikely to change even if you get what you want, which incidentally will never happen."

"How can you say 'never'?"

"Easily," he said without hesitation. "After being with a woman like Bridget, I can't imagine wanting to be with you. Can't imagine any man would." He paused. "You think Giles is not good enough for you… I think it's you that isn't good enough for him."

She pursed her lips, though her complexion went completely pallid. "If that is how you really feel, than I am sorry for you." She sounded exasperated. "I just can't fix that."

"Nothing needs fixing," he said. "Good night." Although it was not his area of expertise nor an area into which he was comfortable venturing, he made a mental note to have a chat with Giles about the conversation that had just transpired. Giles deserved better.

At the end of the night, after dinner, dessert and further conversation with others to erase the sour feelings after his interaction with Rebecca, he said his goodbyes and headed for home.

During the drive, he wondered if these events had always been such a chore and he hadn't noticed until Bridget was no longer there to help make them palatable. He even missed having her company afterwards, the sly post-mortems she was always happy to initiate, tearing the evening to minute pieces when deserved. As uncomfortable as they had often made him, he knew she was usually right.

He thought too, in considering those who had asked about where she was, that they didn't dislike her as much as she thought they did. He wanted to tell her so, but thought she would just think he was trying to guilt-trip her into attending the next. He sighed, banging his palm against the steering wheel. He had to stop assuming she would think the worst of his words. They were friends, and friends were supposed to trust each other. The conversation with Rebecca had infected his brain.

He was, for a moment, tempted to detour towards her flat to drop in to see her, but Rebecca's poisonous words came back to haunt him: what if she was already entertaining company? What if she was out on a date?

He went home instead, got ready for bed, and tried to drift off to sleep, but had some difficulty. He decided finally that he would give her a call the next day in the late morning to say hello and to see how things were. He knew her schedule, knew she liked sleeping in on the weekend.

In trying the next day, however, he only reached her answerphone. He left one message, tried to keep it light and friendly. He tried calling the mobile as well, but got no response. He tried not to worry; she was a grown woman and she knew how to take care of herself, at least most of the time, when she wasn't attracting more trouble than a flame attracted moths. He also tried not to be paranoid that she wasn't answering because she still had company, or had spent the night elsewhere.

_This way lies madness_, he thought. _I can't torture myself like this._

Telling himself that he was going to make sure she was all right, he went to her flat, rang the bell and waited for her to answer. She didn't. He didn't want to resort to using his key, but in the end he felt justified in doing so considering her often-voiced fears of the Alsatians finding her before her friends did. He knocked loudly on the door of the flat proper over an interval of several minutes, but still no answer. He was at this point genuinely worried, so he went in.

"Bridget?" he asked, stepping in, closing the door behind him. No answer. He went through the flat, to the living room, the bathroom, and finally her bedroom.

The bed was made and the room was quite tidy. She was not a regular bed-maker most mornings he stayed over, but she always tried to have it neatly made when she expected him to stay. He saw that there was no half-empty cup of coffee on her bedside table, but sitting there was her mobile; she had likely forgotten it. He was not going to make himself crazy by thinking she'd left it behind deliberately to avoid his call.

He went into the bathroom again. The only toothbrush there was the one he used when he stayed. On his way out he glanced at the answerphone. The number twenty was blinking brightly. Her favourite light overcoat and silk scarf were also missing from the peg by the door. He sighed. He was not one to ignore what evidence told him, whether or not he liked what it said. They were, after all, just friends now. She didn't need his permission to do what she wanted to do.

When his telephone rang later that day, startling him from the work he had forced himself to do, he tried not to answer it too quickly or eagerly. "This is Mark," he answered.

"Mark." He tried not to deflate that it was not Bridget, but his mother. "Surprised you aren't here too."

"What?"

"In Grafton Underwood," she said. "I just saw Bridget at Colin and Pam's this afternoon, at the garden party. I asked where you were and she said you had other plans."

He felt relieved that his assumptions had been incorrect, but also felt a little hurt that she hadn't asked… until he realised she had behaved no differently than he had. She knew he disliked going to her parents' parties just as much as he knew she disliked going to those formal events so common in his profession.

"Mark," she went on. "Is everything… all right between the two of you?"

"Everything's—" He stopped short, unable to get the word 'fine' out. He couldn't lie to his mother. "She wanted to go back to being just friends."

"Mark," she said again, exasperated. "Did you have a fight?"

"Not really a single fight," he said. "We just thought it might be best to step back and take the pressure of the relationship off."

"Mmm," said his mother. "She seemed really… well, not bored so much as lonely. And the poor thing didn't hear the end of it from her mother and Geoffrey Alconbury, being there on her own."

He didn't immediately respond. He could only think that he wished he had been there for her today. While he didn't generally like those familial parties, he liked the thought of Bridget being made to feel that way even less.

"She didn't even tell me about it," he admitted. "She probably assumed I wouldn't want to go."

"Would you have wanted to?"

"That's beside the point," he grumbled. "If she'd wanted me to go, I would have done just to keep her company."

"If you ask me," his mother opined, "that's what a _boyfriend_ does."

They said their goodbyes and hung up. He really wanted to talk to Bridget, to see her, but she was in Grafton Underwood for probably the rest of the weekend, and he really didn't want to seem obsessive and snoopy and phone her at her parents' home.

When the telephone rang later that night he swept it up and answered. "Hi." It was Bridget. "I saw that you rang."

He had sort of forgotten that he had. "Oh, yes. I couldn't reach you and I got a bit worried. Didn't know you were going up to your parents'."

She was silent for a moment. "How did you know?"

"My mother mentioned she saw you."

"Oh," she said. "Right. Well, it was sort of a last-minute decision, and you already had plans last night." She cleared her throat. "Did you have a nice time?" she asked brightly; he thought it a bit forced.

"It was tolerable," he said. "Giles says hello."

Another stretch of silence. "Giles? Giles was there?"

"Yes. Dinner thing for Judge Patten. Dull as dishwater, but the food was good, anyway. All the usual folks were there. Rebecca too. When she saw I was there alone, she—" He stopped. He wondered if mentioning Rebecca's presence (and attempted come-on) was such a good idea, but then reasoned they were friends and he should feel comfortable telling her these things. "Well, not to put too fine a point on it, she practically threw herself at me."

"Oh," said Bridget. "Isn't she with Giles?"

"Ostensibly. I felt like I needed a stick to beat her back," he added. "She really is unbelievable. I'm going to have to have a word with Giles. I think it would be good for him to chuck her—and a good lesson for her, that men are neither her doormats nor at her beck and call."

"You?" she said with an amused disbelief she could not hide. "I'd like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation."

"Well, darling," he said, "I've learned a lot from you and those bloody self-help books."

She did not reply. Belatedly he realised he had slipped and called her the usual endearment.

"Sorry," he added. "Old habits die hard."

"No, it's okay," she said, then added, a smile in her voice, "It's sort of nice to hear."

"Are you doing anything tonight?" he asked abruptly, surprising even himself. "Want to have dinner?"

"Going out with Shaz and Jude for dinner and drinks," she said, then added as if on a sudden inspiration, "You could come."

"I think not," he said. "I'd be the odd man out. Literally."

She chuckled. "Maybe tomorrow night?"

"Dinner? Sure. You could come here. I'll cook."

There was a beat before she said, "Okay. See you then."

As he hung up, he felt moderately better about everything, and very much looked forward to dinner the next evening.

…

A persistent ringing woke him sometime during the night. As he lifted his head and blinked he realised his mobile was ringing, that he had forgotten to turn it off. He reached for it, saw it was Bridget. He answered as he glanced to the clock. It was two in the morning.

"Bridget?"

Silence. "Oh, I'm sorry," she slurred. "Just wanted to hear… oh, never mind."

There was a sound behind her voice, something that was close to static, and he wondered where she was, at least until he heard a car engine go by, both outside of his window and in his telephone earpiece. He pushed the sheets back and sat up. It was not difficult to draw the obvious conclusion, but he asked anyway: "Where are you?"

"On a porch," she said.

"Bridget," he said. "Are you on _my_ porch?"

She didn't answer right away, and when she did she sounded guilty. "Yeah."

He stood, cradled the mobile between his chin and shoulder as he slipped on his robe. "Stay there. I'll be right down."

"Mark, I'm sorry I woke you up," she said.

"It's all right," he said, padding carefully down the stairs. He punched in the security code on the alarm system, then went over to let her in. It was pouring down buckets of rain, and she was soaked to the skin, her hair flattened against her head, mascara streaked down onto her cheeks. She was unsteady on her feet, obviously squiffy. "Hi."

He smiled. "Hi. Come in."

"Thanks." She was shivering, her teeth chattering, with the chill of the night-time rain.

He didn't ask why she had come to his house rather than go home to her own flat; he just stood aside so she could come in, helped her out of her soaking wet jacket and shoes, then put his arm around her waist as he walked her up the stairs. "Let's get you in a warm shower."

"Okay."

He helped her out of her clothes, got her into the shower stall; worried that she might tilt over and hurt herself, he slipped out of his robe and joined her. She embraced him and held him tightly as they stood under the hot water, allowing it to stream over the pair of them. After a few moments he gently stepped back, helped her to wash her hair and scrub off her makeup. After a quick washing up he stepped out, towelled himself off then grabbed a second towel to help her do the same.

He took the glass by the sink and filled it up with water. "Here, drink this," he said, "so you don't feel like death tomorrow." She did as told. He took the glass from her and filled it again; it wasn't a big glass. "Another."

"Mark."

"Just drink it."

After she had done as told, he rubbed the towel over her hair to dry it a little more, then ushered her towards his bed. He dug into his bureau for a set of pyjamas; he shimmied into the bottoms and dressed her in the top.

"Get in," he commanded gently; he had no intention of doing anything but provide body heat and comfort. She did as told without argument. He followed, slipped in, and spooned up against her, his arm holding her close. "There you are," he said quietly, kissing her lightly on the crown of her head. She made a soft sound, snuggling back against him.

She was asleep within no time at all, and he was soon to follow.

When he woke the next morning, she was still asleep, which did not surprise him. He went to the kitchen and made some coffee, doctored hers the way she liked it, then brought it upstairs. As he set the coffee down on her side of the bed, she blinked then opened her eyes. "Good morning," he said.

"Oh God," she said, pulling the sheet up over her head.

Even as he spoke he felt a little wounded that she would seem so mortified to find herself in his bed. "Nothing happened," he said.

"Oh, I know," she said. "I just remembered last night. I mean… I remembered showing up in the middle of the night and waking you up."

He sat beside her with his own coffee. "Don't worry about that. I'd never turn you away," he said. "What brought you here, anyway?"

She emerged from the sheets and pushed herself to sit up against the headboard. He handed her the mug he'd brought for her. "In my half-pissed state I thought I needed to come over for supper. I realised it was the middle of the night after the taxi was already gone. I didn't want to wake you but I did, er, want to hear your voice, and I knew you usually switched your mobile off, so…"

He didn't mean to laugh, but couldn't help himself. "Sorry."

"It's all right," she said. "God. Don't think I'm not humiliated."

"What were you going to do if you hadn't accidentally phoned me?"

She shrugged, sipping the coffee. "Walk home, I suppose."

He hated the thought of her going all that way on foot. "You must promise me never to do that," he said. "If you ever need something like that again, you are to phone me. I don't care if it's the middle of the night."

"Okay," she said.

"Promise me."

"I promise." She sipped at her coffee. "Ugh."

"Not sweet enough?"

"Not that," she said. "It's good. I on the other hand feel like utter shite."

"Think of how bad you'd feel if I hadn't made you drink that water."

"Mm, I don't think it's that. I feel chilled and kind of nauseous."

He reached and placed the back of his fingers on her forehead. She was burning up. "I think you have a fever," he said. "Let me get you something."

He brought her a couple of fever reducers, but she pointed out that with her stomach feeling the way it did, taking them would likely make her vomit. It was a good point. "How about some toast? Plain, dry, wholemeal bread?"

She nodded.

"And some milk?"

She nodded again.

He got to his feet. "Be back in a few."

"Okay."

He went down and prepared the toast for her, brought it and a glass of milk up for her, as well as some strawberry-jam-slathered toast for himself. She looked up as he came in and smiled wanly. "Here you are. Have the toast, have your milk, take the pills and go back to sleep."

"Okay," she said again, accepting the plate and the glass of milk. She took a big bite from the thick bread. She chewed, swallowed and had a generous gulp of the milk.

"Is that okay?"

"Yeah, I think so."

He took a sip of his own coffee, ate his toast as she continued eating as well. When she finished it she set the plate and glass down to the side. "You're too good to me."

"It's no trouble at all," he said. "Now have the pills to bring that fever down."

"Yes, sir," she said playfully, palming the tablets, taking them with remaining milk.

"Probably having been caught in the rain last night is what brought this on," he said. He rose to set his own plate down on hers. "Lie back, take a nap. I'll check in on you later."

She looked very sleepy again already. "Yes, sir," she said again, hunkered down under the covers and closed her eyes. He went into the bathroom and gathered up her still-damp clothes: white knit shirt, cranberry skirt, white tights, bra and pants. He had to do something with them for her, since they had sort of half-dried in a pile there on the floor. She could not very well wear them home in that state.

Upon emerging from the bathroom, he saw she was already back to sleep. He bent over, pecked a kiss on her forehead, then, with her clothes under one arm and the plates and cups from breakfast in his hands, he went back down to the lower level.

He was ashamed to admit that he had some trouble finding the laundry units, but once he did, he dumped her clothing into the washer, set it to what looked to be the appropriate water temperature and level, measured out and poured in some washing powder, then set it to going while he looked through the cupboards to see what he had that he could make for supper that would be palatable to an ill Bridget. Chicken soup came to the forefront of his mind, but there was a difficulty with that: he had no idea how to make chicken soup from scratch, and he doubted the cookbooks that graced his bookshelves had anything quite so mundane.

He grabbed his telephone and dialled his mother. In cases such as these, there was nothing else to be done.

"Why, hello Mark," she said. "Two days in a row. This must be a record."

He chuckled. "I need your help. I need to make a pot of chicken soup and don't have the faintest idea where to begin."

"Chicken soup?"

"Long story," he said. "The nut of it is that Bridget's sick and I wanted to make a pot of soup for her."

"Sick? She was fine just yesterday."

"Maybe she picked up a bug on the train back to London. No idea. She got caught in the rain last night and has a fever now."

"And you know this how?"

Damn his clever mother, he thought. "She stayed over."

"Hm," she said, drawing out the syllable for far too long. "Well, if you're ready I can tell you what you need for soup."

He knew that the change in subject did not mean the end of the discussion. He took diligent notes, realised he had most of what he needed except for fresh vegetables and chicken stock, and found the entire process much easier than expected. As soon as she concluded the litany of preparation, she returned to subject as expected. "So, Mark, do you have other friends stay over often?"

"Mother," he said impatiently. "She showed up after a night out with her friends, drenched and shivering. I was not about to turn her away." After a beat he added, "We only shared the bed. That's all."

"Is that always the case since things between you changed?"

He should have known not to open that door. "Well… no."

"Mark, this is ridiculous," she said. "You get back on proper track with her as soon as possible. Bridget is not the sort of girl you want to treat frivolously."

"If you recall," Mark said, "this arrangement was not my idea." He thought about the relatively short amount of time since they had switched to friends-plus, and realised two things: that they had not had one single fight, and that things had not essentially changed much between them. In fact, things between them were more free of stress than they ever had been. "Besides, I think this is the track we need to be on right now," he said. "It'll all work out. Please don't worry."

"I certainly hope it will," she said sternly. "After all, Pam Jones is not the only one who wants a grandchild someday."

"I know," Mark said. There was a proper order to things; having a child was definitely on that list, and there was no one he'd rather work with on that list than Bridget. "Like I said. Don't worry."

"My love to Bridget," she said. "Take good care of her."

It oddly reminded him of Bridget's own proclamation that morning. "I'll do my best."

He compiled a list, wrote a note for Bridget should she wake, then left for the market. Upon driving home with the carrier bags it occurred to him that he had neglected the laundry in the washing machine. Before getting elbow deep in chopping chicken and vegetables, he figured he ought to put the wet clothes in the dryer.

After that task was accomplished, he pulled the knife and the cutting board out and cut everything that needed cutting, got out the pot and the broth and before long had a bubbling pot of cooking soup. It smelled good; more importantly, it smelled right. He felt positively domestic.

With that, his thoughts turned to the laundry.

He pulled open the door, reached in his hand, and took out the clothing. To his horror, what had once been a lovely summer outfit was now a shrunken pink mess. He thought he had read the care labels closely; he thought he had selected the appropriate settings on both washer and dryer. Instead he had ruined everything, even the bra, which was now a tangle of elastic and underwire.

He turned the hob down to low to let the soup simmer for an hour. With nothing more to do in the kitchen, he thought it might be time to go see how Bridget was doing and break the news to her about her clothing, which was best accomplished by showing it to her.

She stirred the instant he entered the room, which told him she was probably not fully asleep to start with, confirmed when she turned over to look at him. "Hey," he said gently. "How are you feeling?"

"A little better," she said. "Throat's feeling a bit scratchy. Could murder for a cup of drinking chocolate."

"I've got some soup on," he said. "Chicken soup."

"Would prefer something chocolate and hot," she said. "And creamy."

"I'm not sure I have any," he said, sitting beside her. "It's summer."

"You could have the Ark of the Covenant in your pantry and you'd never know. Can you please just look?"

He nodded. "Have some bad news."

"What?"

He handed over the bundle of her dried clothing. She sat up to examine it.

"What is thi—_oh my God_," she said, her tone going from curious to horrified as she picked through the bundle, holding up the once white knit shirt to reveal an almost miniaturised salmon-pink version of same. "What happened to my outfit?" The way that she asked, melodramatic as it was, was tempered by the laugh she was struggling to hide.

"I sort of had a laundry-related incident," he said, thankful she wasn't truly angry. "I'm really sorry."

"Mark Darcy makes a mess of things for once," she quipped. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"I'll take you shopping when you're well," he supplied.

"Well, that's kind," she said with a grimace as she held up the twisted, ruined panties, "particularly as these are—or rather, _were_—my nicest La Perla pants. No, I meant I have nothing to wear home."

He thought about whether or not she had left any articles of clothing behind from a past night over, but she stayed at his house so infrequently that she had not.

"I mean, the clothes would probably be okay, if a bit snug, but no way am I going out without pants," she concluded.

"You can have a pair of mine," he said.

She laughed. "Your _boxers_? Oh no. I'd be swimming in them, plus… well, they're _boxers_. With a _skirt_? You're mad." Still smiling though looking weary from her illness, she went on in a small, pained voice. "You'll have to go to my flat for some new things. Oh! And while you're out, you can pick up some drinking chocolate. Please?"

His jaw tensed for a moment, then relaxed. She could be maddening, but she was also right. "Of course," he said. "But you're not having drinking chocolate for supper."

"Why not?"

"Because I made soup for you."

"I didn't ask you to," she said.

"I wanted to," he said.

"You could have asked," she said, "and left the can intact for when you're sick, if you ever get sick, weirdo."

He chuckled, feeling her head for a fever again. She had cooled considerably. "Ah, but it's not from a can," he said. "I made it from scratch. Well, except for the broth; that was store-bought."

"You did?" she asked, looking very touched.

"I did," he affirmed.

"Well," she demurred, a small smile on her lips. "Maybe a small bowl."

"That's a girl." He stood then bent over to kiss her on the forehead. "Go back to sleep for a bit. I'll go fetch you some clothes, and one way or another, some drinking chocolate."

"Thanks." She looked a little wistful. "I'm sorry to be such a bother."

"It's no bother, darling," he said, patting her hair softly with his hand.

He was not able to find any drinking chocolate in his pantry, so he made a detour to the shop again for a canister of the darkest cocoa he could find. He then went up to the flat and gathered up some clothes to bring over: jeans, socks, tops, and a couple of bras from which she could choose. He paused sorting through her underwear drawer; he swore as he looked through each and every one that he could remember how she looked wearing them. Eventually he selected a few that were on the more conservative side (for comfort). He considered grabbing some of her own pyjamas, but could not locate anything that wasn't a lacy nightie, and frankly liked seeing her in his own pyjama top too much.

When he returned the soup was just about ready to eat. He warmed up some milk for the drink then put her chocolate, two bowls of soup (he was hungry too) and spoons on a tray to take upstairs. He found she had fallen back asleep, and so after setting down the tray he sat on the bed to wake her.

"Have your chocolate."

Before she even opened her eyes she smiled, then blearily pushed herself upright.

"Thanks, Mark," she said. "It smells fantastic."

He thought for a moment she was referring to the soup, but she picked up the chocolate and inhaled its scent deeply. She tilted it up and drank the chocolate so quickly he had to scold her to eat the soup too.

"I will," she said with a pout. "This just hits the spot."

"The soup's good for you."

"This, in its own way, is good for me, too," she said.

He offered no further argument, only reminded that chicken soup was better when not lukewarm.

"Point made," she said.

When she did bring the first spoonful of soup to her mouth, she made an approving sound as she swallowed. "And you made this on your own?"

He smiled. "You don't have to sound so shocked." After a beat, he added, "I consulted with my mother."

She chuckled. "Well, you can report back that success has been achieved." She ate the rest of the bowl in silence. He was pleased that she had the appetite to finish it off.

"There's more, if you're still hungry," he said.

She gave the bowl to him and yawned. "Mmm, not right now. Sleepy."

"It's good you're sleeping so much," he said. "Hopefully you'll kick this thing quickly." She scooted back down under the sheets, nestled into the pillow. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need to." He reached to brush her hair away with his fingertips. "It's good to have someone take care of you when you're sick."

"Mmm," she said, blinking sleepily, offering a smile that suggested she agreed. "Really do appreciate it, Mark. You're far too good to me."

"No more than you deserve," he murmured. She was already on her way to deep sleep. He glanced at his watch. It was not even eight in the evening.

He went downstairs. After putting the remaining soup into storage containers and into the refrigerator, he retreated to his home office and pulled out some papers to review; before he knew it, the clock struck eleven, and he realised he should go to bed, too. As he trudged up the stairs, it occurred to him that working alone at home was too like his Saturday nights before he met Bridget.

He went upstairs and saw she had barely budged. He undressed, got ready for bed, then, wearing the pyjama bottoms once more, climbed in beside her; once more she snuggled up to him. He had forgotten how much he liked falling asleep this way.

…

As morning dawned, Mark opened his eyes to find the bed beside him empty. He blinked a few times, turning to look for her, and found her standing before his bureau, holding up a pair of his boxers from the drawer. She had not noticed he'd awakened, and he wanted to see what she was doing. Silently she stepped into the boxers then pulled them to her waist… and watched as they promptly slipped down to her hips where they stayed, though they sat there tenuously at best. He tried not to laugh, though he had not been good enough at hiding it and she heard him.

"Oh, be quiet," she said with a smile, holding on to the waist with her hand to keep the boxers up.

"What are you doing?"

"I was going to go down and make some coffee," she said, "but not dressed only in your pyjama top, and you inconveniently have the other half of these things. And you don't appear to have other bottoms."

"I don't wear pyjamas that often."

"I know," she said in what he thought was quite a sultry tone.

He cleared his throat. "I think you should phone in to work sick."

She raised a brow. "Is that an invitation?" she teased.

"You sound recovered," he said, fighting back the heat of embarrassment, "but you should stay home and rest."

"It is Monday," she said thoughtfully. "Likely to be very stressful. And I really don't want to relapse."

"Good thinking," he said.

"Will you drive me home on your way to the office?"

"No," he said, then added quickly at her hurt look, "because I will work at home and you can just stay put."

"Oh, that's sweet," she said. "I really didn't want to have to go outside."

He smirked, then pushed back the covers. "I'll go make some coffee and get your mobile, so you can phone whomever you need to phone."

"And toast?"

"Of course."

"Maybe some jam today."

He chuckled. "Strawberry."

"Of course."

As quickly as he could, he returned with breakfast and her mobile as promised. She'd retreated beneath the sheets and had dozed off again, or had apparently done so, because she sat up the instant he returned. She took the phone from the tray with a quiet thanks, then flipped through her contacts to find the one she wanted. "Grant," she said into the phone. "Feeling a little under the weather. Will be away from the laptop and generally unavailable today. Great. Thanks." She pressed the button to disconnect. "There. All settled. Don't you have someone to phone?"

"In a bit. After breakfast."

They ate in a comfortable silence. He was pleased that she seemed to have regained her appetite. "So you are feeling better, I trust?"

"Mm-hmm," she said with a nod as she chewed the last of her toast, then swallowed it down with some coffee. "Thanks for taking care of me." She looked a little wistful as she said it.

"You'd do the same for me," he said.

She grinned. "I'd be bollocks at it."

"Nonsense." He rose, gathered the unneeded plates then smiled. "Well, I'll need to dress and go downstairs to work, but if you need anything you can ring me on the mobile."

"I'll just—" She yawned broadly, then chuckled. "—be going back to sleep for a bit."

"Okay."

He drew out a set of clothing to wear and took it with him to the bathroom. He showered, shaved and dressed, and as he did so he remembered he had scheduled a meeting to work with Giles. As soon as he headed downstairs he phoned his friend and co-worker.

"Giles, I have to work from home today, and was wondering if you might be able to come to the house instead."

"Everything all right? Are you unwell?"

"I'm just fine," he said. "It's Bridget who's unwell."

There was a pause before Giles responded. "Bridget's there?"

"Yes, I had her stay over when she came down with whatever it is she has."

"So are you together or not?"

"It's… complicated."

Giles chuckled. "Right. See you soon."

They worked through a good chunk of morning before realising they should break for something to eat. "Come on," said Mark. "I can warm up some soup."

Giles raised a brow. "Soup?"

As they entered the kitchen, they saw the refrigerator door opened and a female form standing before it perusing its contents. It was Bridget, of course, who wore Mark's pyjama top (long enough to go almost to her knees) and, peeking out from the bottom edge, the lower hem of a pair of boxers. She was unaware that she was no longer alone as she rooted through the contents on the shelves, one hand securing the waist of the boxers at her hip.

"Hello," said Giles.

In a moment's time, she gasped, spun around, and in her surprise released the waistband of the boxers, sending them to the floor. She was by no means exposed but her skin tinted quite red as she made her way behind the island in the centre of the kitchen in order to awkwardly bend, retrieve and restore the boxers to her waist. Mark couldn't help chuckling.

"Hi!" she said with a false brightness to Giles, then she looked to Mark. Giles was barely able to contain his amusement, either. "I didn't know you had company."

"Sorry, I had forgotten to mention our meeting," he said. "I didn't expect to see you down here. I told you if you needed anything you could call my mobile."

"I know, I'm sorry, but I was getting a bit claustrophobic in there. I'll know better next time."

He chuckled again, then walked forward and gave her a little hug. "Sorry, darling," he said. "What were you looking for?"

"Orange juice."

"Don't think I have any," he said. "How about I heat the soup up and make you some chocolate?"

She smiled, apparently appeased. "That'll do."

"We were just having something to eat and drink, ourselves," said Giles. "Mark mentioned soup."

She chuckled. "Yes, he made a big pot for me last night."

Giles' brow raised again. "Oh, Bridget, that reminds me. I wanted to speak to you, if you don't mind. Something in the field of your expertise."

Her brows raised. "Oh?"

They sat at the table while Mark poured soup in a saucepan for reheating, switched the hob to medium-low; he was of the opinion that food tasted better reheated that way rather than in the microwave, which was where he warmed up the milk for her drinking chocolate. The whole time, though, his ear was on the conversation at the table.

"It's about…" He paused, then lowered his voice. "Well. Veronica and I have been on very friendly terms lately, and she is hinting that she might like to get back together. It's something I've been thinking about for some time. I haven't stopped loving her. I just don't know how to end it with Rebecca that doesn't hurt her feelings."

Bridget looked to Mark just as Mark looked to her. "I think," she said, pulling the vee at the top of the pyjama bottoms closer out of subconscious habit, "that this is something Mark will want to speak to you about."

"Mark?" Giles turned to look at him as he walked the drinking chocolate over to Bridget. She thanked him quietly. "Why Mark?"

Mark cleared his throat. He'd wanted to have this conversation, but did not appreciate being put on the spot in such a way. "Giles," he said. "You should know. Rebecca, well, she isn't being completely honest with you. I saw her at the dinner for Judge Patten. She'd heard Bridget and I were not, er… well. She didn't waste her time."

"What?" he asked, looking between the two of them. He seemed perplexed.

"Oh, for God's sake, Mark," Bridget said, exasperated. She looked at Giles directly. "Rebecca shamelessly threw herself at Mark at the dinner. I would have thought she'd have given up on it by now, but I heard even as long ago as at Jude's wedding that she admitted to seeing you to try to make Mark jealous." Giles' face went pale. Mark was shocked too; he'd had no idea that Bridget had overheard that conversation. She reached across the table, patted his hand and spoke in a gentle voice. "I didn't say that to upset you, Giles, and I'm sorry if I have. But you needed to know so you can chuck her with a completely clear conscience."

"Yes," said Mark, pointing in the air with the spoon he'd used to stir the soup. "That's exactly it."

"I had no idea," Giles said, sounding defeated. "How stupid was I not to notice?"

"Don't blame yourself," said Bridget, continuing to pat his hand before taking it and holding in hers. "She only shows others what she wants them to see."

"I'm a fool."

"No, Giles. It's not you. All of us in this room has felt the effects of her machinations. I just don't think she knows any other way to be. You shouldn't be the one to suffer for it, though. No one should." She sighed. "I feel sorry for her, you know. She doesn't know what she's missing by going after what she thinks she has to have. But that isn't something you can fix. You deserve to be happy. You need to chuck her."

Mark ladled the soup into three bowls, brought two bowls and spoons over to the table as he mulled over her words. It amazed him that she could feel sorry for Rebecca after everything she'd done to her, and touched him that she could be so tender and sweet with Giles. He also wondered with some amusement if she wasn't a tiny bit mental. He set one bowl down for Bridget, one for Giles, then went for the third for himself.

"Bridget, you're right, of course," Giles said, taking spoon in hand. "I knew I had to do it, but now I feel more justified than ever before."

"And remember, you're not doing it for Veronica. You're doing it for yourself and your own happiness."

"Though I'm sure Veronica will appreciate it," Mark said.

Bridget looked at him and pursed her lips. "I meant that even if Veronica was not of a mind to reconcile, being alone is better than being with someone who isn't being emotionally honest with you."

Giles nodded. Mark could only wonder if Bridget's words meant something more, or applied to their situation. "What should I say?"

"Well, don't be too hard on her," she said, surprising Mark again. "You're too good for angry words. Maybe something that will allow her to save face as well."

Giles nodded again. "Bridget, you're a genius. You know that, don't you?"

She smiled, then spooned her soup up. "I do try," she said with a smile.

After they ate, Mark excused themselves to return to their work. Giles went ahead back to Mark's office. Bridget did not rise. "You going to go back upstairs and sleep?" he asked.

"Upstairs, yes," she said, "but I think I should get dressed and go home."

"What? Why?"

"I'm feeling fine now. I've taken advantage of your generosity long enough."

Mark was convinced that this was not the real reason. "Bridget. What is it?"

"It's really nothing. I think I should just leave."

"Bridget," he said again, his voice sterner. "Talk to me."

She looked down at where her hands were folded upon each other. "It seems like the only thing I'm good at doing is embarrassing you in front of your colleagues and friends."

"What?"

"Mark," she said with a bit of exasperation. "My pants fell off in front of Giles."

"He already knew you were here, and unwell," he explained. "Besides, it's not like anything could be seen; that top's longer than some skirts you have. I'm sure he just thought it funny."

"Yes," she said sombrely. "I'm nothing but a joke."

"Bridget, Giles just called you a genius."

She sighed. "I suppose."

He thought briefly about mentioning what Horatio and Louise had said at the Judge Patten dinner, but didn't want her to think he was buttering her up for the next dinner that upcoming weekend. He just said, "Well. If you really must go, then do so, but don't think I want to be rid of you."

She offered a small smile. "Okay." Elastic waistband in hand, she got to her feet then gave him a big hug. "Think I will have a shower so I don't scare small children and pensioners on my way home."

He chuckled. "Okay. Come say goodbye before you go."

She nodded, then kissed his cheek.

He returned to the office and found Giles eyebrow deep in their continuing work. Within a few minutes they were both back at it at a galloping pace until they were finished. Mark was surprised to see it was now nearly five-thirty, and a little hurt that Bridget had not come to tell him she was leaving.

"Well," said Giles as he packed his attaché. "I think I know what I'm going to say. To Rebecca, I mean."

"Oh?" asked Mark; Giles nodded. When Giles did not elaborate, Mark added, "I'm glad. Let me know how it goes."

"Will do. And tell Bridget thanks again. She's great. Hang on to that one, Mark, with all your might." He snorted a laugh. "And here Rebecca said you'd split up. I should have known better."

With that Giles left. Mark sighed, straightened the papers on his desk, and stepped out into the foyer. He was still put out by the fact that Bridget had gone without so much as a knock and a wave. He decided to pull out his mobile and call hers… and was surprised to hear it ringing from upstairs. He saw too that her jacket was still hanging on the coat rack. He drew his brows together. Had she just not left?

He went upstairs and found her fast asleep in his bed. It was evident that she had nothing on with the barest covering of sheets over her form, and from the way her hair was behaving, she had evidently laid down shortly after showering. He sat beside her, brought the backs of his fingers to rest against her forehead. She at least did not feel feverish.

His touch caused her to stir. She opened her eyes. "Hi," he said.

"Oh," she said. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You just climbed back into bed for fun?" he teased.

"I had the water too hot," she said, "and it made me a little dizzy and overheated. So I laid down 'til it passed."

"It's all right," he said to reassure her. "It's supper time. You're welcome to stay. There's a lot of soup left."

She chuckled. "Well, I certainly wouldn't want it to go off and go to waste."

"I'll spice it up a bit," he said, "and cook some noodles to put in it."

"Living on the edge, you are."

He smiled, bringing his hand up to her face, brushing his fingers over the hair at her temple. "You're definitely feeling better," said. His eyes wandered to her bare shoulders and arms, lingered on that lovely hollow at the base of her throat. "I'm glad."

"So am I. Mark."

His attention went back to her face. She looked mildly amused, as if she'd noticed his gaze, but he detected a little desperation in her tone when she spoke.

"It's been weeks," she said.

She didn't really need to say more. He thought she was probably exaggerating—he didn't keep track of every intimate liaison they had like she did—but it had been longer than he liked since they had last slept together. He stroked her hair again. "You're recovering."

"I'm not recovering from major surgery," she said, bringing her hand over his, her fingertips flitting delicately over the skin on the back of his hand. "I had a little cold or something, nothing more. Besides, what better way to boost the immune system?" She used her free hand to push the sheets back, revealing her bare body to the waist. "I'm not really hungry yet, anyway."

He knew he should have resisted her, but he couldn't. He bent and kissed her, shifting to stretch out beside her, his hand roaming over her skin. With her help he was quickly divested of his clothing. He pressed himself against her, revelling in the soft throaty sounds she made, feeling himself quickly succumb to ecstasy.

Afterwards, stretched out with her, his cheek rested on her upper arm, which was raised up and over her head. She made a great, long satisfied sound as she let out a breath. _There is no denying our physical compatibility_, he thought as he tightened his hand on her hip.

Her arm came down and around his neck, and she had bent her elbow to rake her fingernails through his hair. "Hmmm," she said, reiterating her satisfaction. She turned to kiss him again. "Sounds like we both needed that."

"Mmm," he said, his hand coming up and around to splay on her back. He smiled a little. He heard at that moment a funny gurgling sound. She started to rock with silent laughter. He didn't need to look at her to know she was crimson with her mortification. "Sounds like you've worked up an appetite, after all," he murmured. Planting a kiss on her forehead, he pushed himself away. "Come on. I'll fix the noodles."

As he dressed, she rose and did the same, then they headed down to the kitchen together. The longer he was upright, however, the more he realised he was feeling a little headachy and dizzy. He thought it probably had to do with hunger, that the previous meal he'd had seemed ages ago.

While searching for the box of noodles, he felt her hand on his cheek. "Mark, you feel hot. Are you okay?" He turned and saw the concern on her face.

"Fine," he said even as he shuddered with a chill.

"Bollocks." She knit her brows. "Oh my. I think I've given you whatever I had."

"Nonsense," he said.

"Mark, you're not invincible," she said. "There is a chance you are actually ill. So sit your arse down. I am capable of making noodles and warming up soup."

He couldn't help chuckling, and he went to sit at the table. "Yes, ma'am."

The rest of that evening was something of a blur. He remembered her bringing him some fever reducer, having some noodle soup, then making his way back up to bed with her assistance. "Think you're the one who'll be phoning in sick tomorrow," said Bridget as he laid back onto the pillow, her fingers brushing along his forehead before she drew the sheets up to his shoulders. It amazed him how quickly he had succumbed to the illness.

"I'll be fine," he said, or at least that's what he meant to say.

"Just go to sleep," she admonished.

He did as told, and when he woke again, he felt much refreshed, though he saw that it was still dark; the clock told him it was one in the morning, and Bridget was not in the bed with him, which slightly disappointed him. He pushed himself up, feeling a bit woozy and very thirsty. There was a conveniently placed glass of water on the bedside table, and he took a great big sip. He then got to his feet and wandered to the bathroom. He did not remember stripping down to boxers and a tank, but that's how he was dressed.

His reflection in the mirror surprised him. He looked haggard, was in desperate need of a shave and a shower, and his tongue felt thick and pasty in his mouth. He splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth in an attempt to feel more human. He was suddenly hungrier than he could remember being in some time, so he found his robe and headed for the stairs, intent for the kitchen.

He was startled to see that he was, in fact, not alone after all. Just outside the door to the back garden he saw a familiar figure, and she was smoking a cigarette. Cautiously he opened the door. "Bridget? What are you do—"

He didn't get to finish his question, because she shrieked and dropped the end of the cigarette. "Mark! You're awake!" She stepped on the end then hastily picked it up before she came inside and gave him a hug. "I was really starting to worry."

"Why?"

She blinked as she pulled back. "You slept all day long."

"What?"

"Tuesday. You slept all day Tuesday. Tomorrow—well, today—is Wednesday."

He blinked in incomprehension. "I slept all day? What about work?"

"I found your mobile and rang up Giles, told him you'd be out for at least a couple of days. Then he told me that Horatio was coming over for a paper and I had to find it for him if you didn't wake up. Don't worry. I handled it." She smiled.

He wondered exactly how she'd handled it.

"I had to go home for my laptop, so I nicked your keys and left then came back," she continued. "It seemed only right, since you took care of me."

"I appreciate it very much," he said. "I feel a hell of a lot better, though I could use something to eat."

"You look wrecked," she said with a grin. "Let's get you fed. I'll make you a sandwich."

While he sat at the table—reminding him so much of what felt to him like the night before—she prepared him a simple turkey and cheddar sandwich with mustard. "I think you should stay home again," she declared. "You obviously need to take it easy. Don't need you relapsing. Don't want to be sick for this weekend."

"What?"

"You told me you have a dinner or something posh with your lawyer friends," she said, bringing him the sandwich, then going for a glass of orange juice. "Picked some up while I was out. Anyway. You don't want to be sick for it."

He had considered asking her, but couldn't remember if he already had or not. In any case, he thought she might have had a point. "Thank you. And what about you?" he asked, taking a sip of the juice, which seemed particularly acidic to him.

"I did work today from here," she said. "No worries. I can stay with you if you like."

"And this weekend?"

"What about it?"

"Are you free to join me?"

She grinned. "I already told you I can't."

"Ah," he said, then admitted he didn't remember asking.

"I figured," she said. "How's the sandwich?"

"Have hardly had a bite, as you can see," he said. "But excellent. Your genius knows no bounds."

She laughed, then yawned. "I'll just sack out here again tonight, if that's okay," she said. "I could, you know, go in the guest room."

"Not necessary," he said, then added, "I'm wide awake now."

"Oh," she said.

Belatedly he realised it sounded like he was offering her the bed because he wasn't using it, or perhaps even that he was propositioning her, not that he could have fulfilled his end of the deal. "I mean I'll just join you when I'm tired again." Suddenly he was overcome with the feeling that he did not want to be alone. "Actually… I could really go for some chocolate. Can I bribe you to stay and fix some for me?"

Wearily she smiled. "I'd be happy to." He was convinced she knew his ulterior motives.

She rose and bee-lined for the cupboard with the drinking chocolate, as if she'd known its location by some sixth sense. He bit into his sandwich, which was indeed tasty but needed to be washed down with a beverage. As she poured some milk into a pair of mugs to warm in the microwave (not his preferred method, but she was the one making it for him), she chuckled to herself.

"What's so funny?"

"You _must_ be sick."

"What? Why?"

"Not a word about my having a fag?"

At that he laughed. "Another time, perhaps, when I'm feeling more myself."

"I look forward to the lecture," she said. "So what's the bribe?"

"What?" As she chuckled again, it occurred to him what she meant, his offer of just a few moments ago to bribe her to stay. "Oh. Well, I'll leave it to you."

She raised a brow. "I'll have to think of something really good," she said with a devilish smirk.

"I trust you will," he said as the microwave beeped. She took out both cups, dumped cocoa into them then gave a stir before bringing them to the table.

"Here we are," she said with a smile.

It was certainly the richest drinking chocolate he'd ever had with probably half again as much cocoa as strictly called for, but it was not unpalatable. In fact, it was extremely soothing on his throat, particularly after the orange juice. "Delicious," he said.

"Thanks," she said, sipping her own. "Not too chocolaty?"

"Not at all," he said, then continued eating his sandwich.

Though he'd wanted her company, he was content with the relative silence; they both seemed to be. He finished his late night snack while she nursed her drinking chocolate. She seemed to be a million miles away, and he was loathe to disturb her. Just as he finished the last of his food, she snapped back to the present.

"Was it good?" she asked, presumably about the sandwich.

"Highest quality. Best ever had," he said with a grin. Despite the copious sleep he'd had, he was feeling drowsy again. "Come on. Let's go to bed."

"Poor Mark," she said, linking her arm almost protectively around his waist. "I don't think I've ever seen you sick before." He wondered how rough he looked; she hadn't even turned his comment into a double entendre. "I thought of what I wanted, by the way. For the bribe."

"What's that?" he asked.

"Oh, I'll tell you when we get upstairs."

When they got into the bedroom, she slipped his robe off of his shoulders. "Go on, get in," she urged, pointing to the bed.

"My teeth," he insisted.

She ended up accompanying him to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth using the second sink. She didn't wait for him to finish before leaving the loo, and when he exited he found her beneath the sheets already.

"So," she said. "The bribe."

He got into bed and waited for her to speak.

"Get comfy."

He did as she instructed, settling in, and as soon as he did she snuggled up against him. "This is all I want," she said, then gave him a peck on the lips before turning around to spoon up against him, pulling his arm over her for an embrace.

"Got off easy," he murmured before slipping under and back to sleep. He swore as he did that he heard her chuckle a little.

…

Upon waking again, the first thing he did was check his watch. To his relief the display informed him it was Wednesday. The bed beside him was empty, but he heard the shower running. He pushed himself up out of bed and padded towards the bathroom. He could tell that even from that short walk that he was much improved, aside from maybe needing a shower, a shave and some coffee.

"It's just me," he said upon entering.

"Oh, hi," she said, steam billowing up from behind the shower stall door. "How are you feeling?" She slid the door aside and peered at him. The face she pulled apparently told her all she needed to know.

"I could use some hot water," he admitted.

"Well, I'm almost through, but you're welcome to join me," she said, sliding the door closed.

He sloughed off the tank and boxers and opened the door to join her. She turned to give him the full blast of hot water, and the feel of the heat against his sleep-achy muscles caused him to groan, which in turn caused her to smile.

"Poor thing," she said. "Turn around. I'll get your back before I get out."

He did as told, placing his hands on the wall in front of him, the water thundering out of the shower and directly on the top of his head as he looked to the tiled floor. The feel of the soapy washcloth on his back was heavenly.

"There you are," she said.

As he thanked her, he heard the shower door whoosh open. He turned to see her step out; she closed the door behind her. "Are you staying?" he asked.

He could see her shadowy shape moving; she was rubbing the towel into her hair. "I thought you were feeling better."

"Well," he said. "Maybe not completely better."

"I'm really sorry, Mark," she called to him. "I can't stay right now. I have a meeting. I could come back, though, if you like."

"I would very much appreciate it," he replied.

"Okay," she said. "I can be back in time for lunch, if you want to go back to sleep." He heard her open the drawer at the sink. The amount of noise she was making suggested she was looking for the hairdryer she knew to be in there, one he only kept for her sake.

"I would appreciate it," he said.

She was just finishing up drying her hair when he stepped out, wrapping the towel around his waist. "You do look better," she said, scrutinising him as he stood there, "but you're right, you're not one-hundred percent. Hold on."

Still clad in a towel, she stepped out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. As he dried himself off he could faintly hear her talking, and in a flash returned with a compassionate smile. "I'm off the hook until tomorrow, at least my physical presence. It's your lucky day."

He smiled. It certainly felt as such.

"Let's get you something to wear," she went on. "Don't need you to get chilled and relapse."

"Thanks."

She found him a pair of trackie bottoms and a clean tee shirt, which he slipped on over the boxers he'd dug up for himself. "Back in bed," she said. "In you go."

Once he'd gotten himself in and comfortable again, he saw that she was not following. "Will you stay with me?" he asked.

"I thought I might make you—well, us—something to eat. Some coffee. I know just what to make for you."

As she dressed—she had obviously gone home for yet more clothing—he wondered in a slightly terrified way what exactly she was planning to feed him.

"Be back in a tick," she said, bending to peck a kiss on his forehead before sweeping out of the room.

As he laid there waiting for her to return with breakfast, he found himself falling into a contemplative state. How much he had grown to like her being there in the house with him; how much he would miss her when he did not have the excuse of one or the other of them being ill. How lonely he would feel.

"All right, here we are."

He must have been in that pensive state a lot longer than he thought he'd been, because she was at the bedside with a tray. He turned and sat upright against the headboard, propping the pillow behind his back, as she set the tray across his lap and set down the folded newspaper she'd had tucked under her arm. On the plates was what looked to be scrambled eggs with some salt and pepper on them, and on the side some slices of toast, pre-buttered and on the side of the plate. "I couldn't find your toast rack," she said.

"It's all right." He picked up his fork and started pushing around at the eggs. Given her track record he was a little worried about the way her meal would taste, and whether or not it would be fully cooked. He scooped up a forkful and put it into his mouth. To his surprise they were perfect, light and fluffy and fully cooked. Inadvertently he made an approving sound, which caused her to laugh. It would seem she knew what his expectations would be.

"I'm glad you like it," she said. "I've been practising."

He chuckled a little.

The coffee was good too, and for him she'd also poured a glass of orange juice. She polished off her serving before he did. "For your entertainment," she said, reaching for the newspaper, "I present to you the news of the day."

She read the headlines from the delivered copy of the _Guardian_, interjecting her own special brand of commentary, causing him to smile and chuckle in turn. "Such rubbish," she said, setting it down when she'd gone over the whole of page one. "They make it so easy for me to make fun of them."

"Oh, they're not that bad," he said. He felt he had perhaps led them to the brink of an argument, so he added, "Though you do make it ten times more entertaining."

She only smiled. "Glad to be of service." She rose from her place on the bed, picked up the tray with the remnants of the meal and set it aside. "I think you should go back to sleep. You need to rest."

He pushed himself back under the covers and as he did so, he was overtaken by a chill; consequently he involuntarily shivered.

"Oh, you're cold. Here, scoot over." She pulled the corner back then slipped in beside him. "Turn over," she instructed. "I'll warm you up." He didn't know how she expected to spoon up and warm him when she was physically smaller than he was, but he did as she asked, and he felt her press herself against his back, her arm coming up and over his, her knees pressing just below his backside, her nose and chin tucked into his neck. "There you are," she murmured, rubbing her hand on his chest affectionately.

He didn't think it helped much—there just wasn't enough of her to enfold him in her arms properly—but he certainly liked the way she felt against him, her breath racing along his skin, her breasts pressed up to his back, the rhythm of her breathing matching his. As the moments passed, he realised he did feel warmed, and soon enough drifted back to sleep.

It was the thought that he'd been sleeping way too much that woke him again. Bridget was still there, still had her arm around him tucked under his own, holding him close to her. She too had fallen asleep, evident in the sharp intake of breath she took when she woke upon his stirring.

"Oh, damn," she said, her voice a little sleep-shaky. "Can't believe I dozed off again. What time is it?"

"No idea," he replied. "Watch is on the night stand."

From behind him she shifted and pushed herself up, turning over to reach for the watch. He turned over as well. "Shit." Quickly she sat up, running her fingers through her hair.

"What is it?"

"I had a deadline today. Twenty minutes ago."

He pushed himself up, too. "Oh, I am so sorry," he said.

"No, it's my fault, not yours," she said. "You didn't force me to fall asleep."

"But I—" He could hardly admit to exaggerating his illness in order to get her to stay. What had felt selfish from the start now felt doubly so. "—feel like it is my fault. What is it that you have to do? Can I help?"

She smiled sweetly. "Not much you can do, Mark, but thanks for the offer. Oh, I know what you could do. Moral support. And task master."

"What?"

"I get… easily distracted," she admitted sheepishly. He burst out laughing. "Shush. But you are good at keeping me on task."

"I would be glad to."

As he pulled himself out of his bed, he ran his hand over his face, and decided the amount of growth did not warrant the task of shaving. _It probably also lent an air of decrepitude_, he thought, smiling to himself.

They sat together on the sofa of the sitting room, she leaned up against one arm, he leaned up against the other, each with their laptops, her legs to his left and his to hers. He figured he might as well get caught up on reading a few things while keeping her company and keeping her, as she had put it, on task. Occasionally he would ask for a status update, ask her to read out the last bit she'd done, if she needed any help.

It was about an hour and a half later that she closed her laptop and beamed a smiled to him. "There, all finished and sent," she said. "Thank you."

"Of course."

She sat up and leaned forward, asked for him to do the same. He closed his own portable computer; she reached her hand out and touched his forehead. "No fever at least. That's good."

He smiled, but had a sinking feeling it was a prelude to her leaving. He was right. She swung her legs over to sit up properly. "I really ought to go."

"Thank you for staying as long as you have," he said. "It means a lot to me." After a beat, he said, "I know you said you can't come to the dinner with me on Friday, but are you free on Saturday?"

"Sorry," she said. "I'm not, all weekend."

"Back to Grafton Underwood?" he asked, curious about her plans.

"No."

He waited for more detail, but none was forthcoming. He didn't want to pry.

"Well," she said, "I should get together all of my stuff and go home. Will you phone a minicab for me?"

"Nonsense," he said. "I'll drive you home."

"No," she said. "You need to stay inside and rest. That way you can end the week on a healthy note and have the strength and energy for your dinner thing. God knows you'll probably need it." She smiled and winked.

He smiled too, but her words only reinforced how much she despised those events. "Hand me the telephone," he said, sitting up and setting his laptop on the table as he indicated the handset beside her.

After she did she smiled again then left the room to gather up her things, which she did in very little time at all. The minicab he'd called for came within twenty minutes as promised, and with a peck on his cheek, she was gone. The house seemed too quiet, too large and lonely without her.

He dialled his assistant Hermione to let her know he was on the mend, that he'd be back to work the next day; after that he returned his laptop to his office, where he proceeded to complete his work day, hoping it would make him forget how unsettled he felt. It didn't help; it only compounded things when he was finished and emerged out of the office and into the silent house. He sighed, planned and made his supper, then retired for the evening at the usual hour.

…

One benefit of having been recently ill was that it gave him the excuse to duck out early from the dinner if he needed to. Five minutes in he was sure he would draw upon that excuse. He smiled at those he passed, and swore they were regarding him with curiosity at being alone again.

Louise Barton-Foster found Mark within ten minutes of his arrival. "Mark," she said, drawing out his name for many seconds. "Glad to see you. Don't tell me you're without an escort again."

"Afraid that I am," he said.

"What a shame," she said. "I was expecting to see your lovely little pinko with you tonight." It was not what she said that surprised him; it was that it was said with genuine affection.

"She couldn't make it," he said, which wasn't untrue.

"You haven't split up, have you?" she asked in a confidential tone.

"We're taking… a break," he admitted.

She scowled at him. "Mark," she said. "What foolishness!"

"I'm sorry?" he asked. He must have looked as surprised as he felt by this outburst.

"Mark, if you must know the truth, of all the women you've brought to these things, and I include your dull-witted ex-wife and that social parasite Rebecca in this—thank _God_ Giles had the sense to dump her—your Bridget's the only one who seemed to care about _you_ and not what you had to offer. She could have kept her mouth shut—" He briefly thought what an impossibility that would have been. "—and like an automaton blindly agreed to and simpered over everything you, _we_, had to say, just to get her feet under the table."

He was truly speechless at this tirade of hers—not unlike Sharon, he realised, and figured it was only a matter of time before she called him a fuckwit—as Louise went on.

"We may not agree on matters of politics, but she has a wonderful sense of humour, and her honesty and forthrightness is a breath of fresh air." Her voice went down to a low register again. "I can't tell you how many of us respect her for just saying what she's thinking, damn the consequences. And, frankly, are envious of her freedom to do so."

After a few moments of considering what she'd said, he finally spoke. "I don't know what to say, Louise. I've been under the misapprehension that you did not care for her. We both were, to be frank."

Unexpectedly she laughed. "Oh, Mark, I appreciate your own honesty about this. What did I ever do to give that impression? Perhaps it was your own perception rubbing off on her. You should really give me more credit than that."

He did not know quite what to say to that. There was no single instance he could bring to mind that had earned Louise the assumptions he had made. "I am sorry," he said at last. "You have really opened my eyes tonight."

After a few more pleasantries they parted to mingle with others as was expected at these events, but Mark could not think of anything else but Louise's words, particularly when two or three other colleagues asked about Bridget as well with similar concern for her absence. He asked himself how he could assumed they would feel that way about Bridget, but he knew; at one time, he had himself made those same assumptions about her. He should have trusted Louise, and by extension his other colleagues, to allow Bridget to do what she did best and charm them all with her wit and personality.

He stayed long enough to get a meal out of it, but made his excuses, drawing on the aftermath of physical illness, and left relatively early. He wanted desperately to phone Bridget, to see her, but she had already declared herself unavailable for the weekend. It would have been rude to impose himself upon her.

His weekend was spent brooding over what exactly it was she was doing all weekend long that did not involve travelling to Grafton Underwood. Did it involve the strange man who had answered the telephone for her? The more he tried to distract himself with work and menial household tasks, the worse he felt, the more obsessed his thoughts became. At least if they were back together as a couple he could feel he had the right to ask what she was doing. This uncertainty in their situation also strengthened his resolve in ending this nonsensical 'friends only' business, and be her boyfriend again properly.

Or more.

On Sunday, with determination he dialled her number and let it ring; it rang so many times he knew it was destined to go to the answerphone, so he mentally prepared his message. When she picked up with a breathy, "Yes?" it took him a little by surprise.

"Bridget?"

"Mark, oh, hi," she said, in his opinion in too bright a manner. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," he said, stretching the truth a bit as his thoughts were veering off in a million directions at once. "Just wanted to know if I could drop by."

"No," she said quickly. "I'm, er, busy."

He didn't know where the notion of going over to her place had even come from, but with a reaction like that, he wanted to do it more than ever. "Bridget," he said authoritatively. "We need to talk. I'm coming over." With that he hung up the telephone and prepared to leave for her flat.

Having a key meant he could let himself up. He bounded up the stairs and then let himself into the flat proper. When he saw her, it was clear he'd taken her by surprise, but there was no denying two things: that she looked radiantly beautiful even though she was cross, and that she was not alone. He was grateful at least that her companions were Jude and Sharon, but he knew there were very few things that made a woman look quite so rosy and glowing as Bridget was right now.

"Mark," she said through clenched teeth. "What are you doing here? I told you I was busy."

"What are you doing?" he asked, looking from Jude to Sharon then back to Bridget. The two women seemed suspiciously quiet and conspiratorial.

"We're getting pissed," said Bridget, frowning at him, holding up a glass of wine.

"Where have you been?"

"None of your business. Why are you so pissed off?"

Not answering her question, he barked, "Who is he?"

"What?" all three women answered at once.

"You're mad," said Bridget, getting unsteadily to her feet. "We were having a girls' night in. That's all."

"A girls' night in?" he went on. "All weekend?"

"Yes, actually," Bridget said indignantly. "We spent the weekend at a beauty spa. Jude got a bonus and decided to treat us."

Mark looked to her friends. They nodded. It was only then he noticed that they too had glowing complexions and had both each gotten haircuts.

"Oh," said Mark with no small amount of embarrassment.

"I think you should leave," Bridget said, challenge in her eyes.

"No!" chimed Sharon and Jude in unison.

"No?" Bridget replied in disbelief, turning to them.

"I think it's sorta cute he's acting so jealous," piped up Sharon.

"Very sweet," added Jude.

"Sweet?" she said, pointing at Mark. "Letting himself in, demanding to know what I'm doing and shouting accusations at me is not sweet."

"Bridget, I'm sorry," he said. "You know I don't normally lose my head like that. I… admit that perhaps I was a bit jealous. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Alone."

"Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of them."

He looked between the three women, who returned his gaze with equal intensity. There was no escaping this fate. "Fine," he said, drawing himself up to his full height. "Bridget, I've been doing a lot of thinking, and quite frankly, it's utter bollocks to persist in this 'friends-plus' state. I want more than that with you. I want to marry you."

It was a lot more frank than even Mark was anticipating. He had no honest idea from where the words had come. He had from time to time contemplated asking, but not in circumstances such as these, not in front of her friends, and certainly not without a ring of some kind.

"What?"

There was no question that she'd heard what he'd said, so it must have been she did not comprehend it. Or perhaps, judging from her glassy-eyed expression, she just did not believe it.

"What do you mean, 'what'?" bludgeoned in Sharon. "He's fucking _proposing_."

"Yes she will!" added in Jude.

"No," she said, snapping out of it. "I can't."

He wondered what his own expression had done, because Sharon and Jude got to their feet and, with feeble, obvious excuses, got their handbags, pulled out their mobiles (he guessed to call for a minicab) then left the flat.

"Oh," he said at last.

"It isn't that I don't want to," she added quietly, presumably to appease his hurt feelings. It didn't work.

"Then why say you can't?" he asked.

She looked down.

"What's the real reason for this whole 'friends' thing anyway? Were you not happy? I know we were fighting a lot over stupid, trivial things, but that's not important now. Being in this state only reinforced how I felt—_feel_—about you." He came up close to her, took her hand in his. "Be honest, Bridget. I think I deserve to know."

Her lower lip began to tremble. "I thought," she began in a timid voice, "it would be less painful to just be friends when someone who's more perfect for you comes along."

He could hardly believe what he was hearing. "What?"

"I'm not good enough for you, Mark," she said, meeting his gaze at last. "You and I both know it."

"I can't believe you could think such things," he said indignantly. "That you would think such an absurd notion true. That you would believe me capable of settling for someone I didn't really, truly love."

"You have before," she shot back. "With Natasha, even with Rebecca."

It was a fair assessment from her point of view. "I never loved her, any of them, the way I love you. Not even my ex-wife," he said. "In fact, I'm not even sure I was in love."

She looked a bit dazed, but asked, her eyes filled with tears, "And how do I know Miss Perfect Pants won't come along any time now, and you won't just think the same about me?"

He squeezed her hand. "The reason those relationships didn't work," he said, "was because I had no real feelings for them. I didn't know what love really was until I met you." Hoping to lighten the atmosphere, he said, "You _are_ my Miss Perfect Pants."

He saw the barest hint of a smile, but her voice was still sombre when she spoke. "I'm perfect at nothing."

"I don't agree, but even if that were true, I'd still love you," he said. "That should count for something." He tugged her forward and into his arms.

"Maybe it counts towards you being utterly mad," she murmured.

"Truth be told," he said after a few moments in warm silence, "I thought you were too good for _me_."

She pushed back, surprise apparent on her features. "What?"

"Well, I'm not exactly Mr Excitement," he said. "I figured I was just boring you out of your skull, and maybe… well, maybe you were just trying to let me down easy."

She smiled, then hugged him again. "Talk about absurd," she said. She then chuckled to herself. "Miss Perfect Pants and Mr Excitement make a pretty good pair."

"Mm," he concurred. He reared back, cupped her face in his hand, then bent to kiss her. Within seconds her arms snaked around his neck, and she arched up into him, responding ardently to him; his arms went about her waist and pulled her against him.

"Mark," she gasped as he broke the kiss to lavish attention upon her chin then throat. "Mark," she said again urgently.

"What, darling?" he asked, hardly pausing to do so.

"Well, it's Shaz," she began. This caused him to cease all activity, and he drew back to meet her eyes. "Shaz says any man given leave to see other women will do so in a heartbeat, and I just wanted to be sure…"

It occurred to him that it was only fair for her to wonder, when he himself had wondered about her seeing another man. "Shaz thinks so, does she?" he said. Thinking of that awful breakup they had gone through before, he added, "And her track record has been spotless to date…"

She blushed. "So you didn't take anyone else out."

"Of course not," he said in a semi-serious authoritative tone. "But while we're on the subject, who was that man who answered your telephone whilst you were in the shower?"

"What?" she asked, drawing her brows together. "Oh, do you mean Ralph?"

"Who's Ralph?"

"The new builder," she said, "came to take down my mad, Gary-built shelves and replace them with some that didn't come from the sideways world. Hadn't you noticed?"

"I admit I had not," he said, then bent towards her again. "You can show me later." He then began to kiss her once more. "One question, though," he whispered into her ear. "Am I still entitled to full benefits?"

"More now than ever," she said, then grabbed the belt loops at his hips, then stepped back, pulling him towards her bedroom. Mark was immediately glad that Sharon and Jude had had the good sense to vacate the premises.

Clothes were discarded in record time, and though passion was high, nothing was rushed. It was almost as if they were making up for a long, dry spell, even though they certainly had been intimate since the now-reversed change in status. Something was different now, though; the bond between them felt restored and stronger than ever. It would all be all right now.

"I've missed you," she whispered afterwards, pressed up against him, her leg draped over and entwined with his, her fingertips drawing lazy circles over the fine mat of hair on his chest.

He chuckled. "I know what you mean," he replied.

She let out a long breath. "Have a question," she said. "Does this mean I have to go to your awful events now?"

He chuckled low in his throat. "No," he said. "Not if you don't want to. Though you'll be surprised to hear that for the two I attended without you, you were very much missed."

"Yeah," she scoffed. "They missed not having their village idiot to point and laugh at."

"On the contrary," he said, "there was genuine concern that we had split, and an expressed admiration for your forthrightness."

She pushed herself up to look at him. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. Louise Barton-Foster herself scolded me to get things patched up."

"Oh." She was thoughtful for many moments. "But I didn't think you wanted me there," she said. "I thought I embarrassed you."

"It turns out—and you may want to mark this in your diary—" She giggled. "—that I handled things all wrong. I thought the best way for you to survive these 'dos was to smile and keep your mouth shut. As it turns out, they really liked your… _different_ point of view. In fact, I wager that everyone else finds these things as dreadful as you and I do, and look forward to your livening things up a bit." He turned more serious in tone. "If you do choose to attend one of these things with me again, I promise that you can be yourself."

She smiled warmly, then leaned forward and gave him a sweet, lingering peck on the lips. "Have another question," she asked quietly, meeting his eyes again. "If I attend these with you, will I be going as your girlfriend… or as your fiancée?"

"Hm," he said. "I suppose that's entirely up to you. After all, you never did say definitively what your answer—"

"_Yes_, you git," she said, kissing him again. "I just wanted to make sure the offer still stood."

"Indeed," he said. It may not have been the most eloquent offer, but it had been sincere. Most importantly, she had accepted it.

**Epilogue:**

"You're sure."

"I'm more than sure," he reiterated. "You'll be fine."

"I feel like I'm walking into the lion's den."

He chuckled. "What you fail to realise, my love, is that you're just a panther."

She laughed, seeming more at ease. "A panther?"

"Yes," he said, feeling his face flush with mild embarrassment; the analogy had made much more sense in his own head. "A different kind of big cat, unique, but just as fierce and intelligent in your own way. And not, say, a rabbit."

"Now that's a vote of confidence," she said with a light chuckle, "I think."

Mark smiled, then raised his hand to press the bell.

After a few moments a voice came through the speaker. "Mark? Bridget? Is that you?"

"Yes," said Mark.

"Fantastic. I'll buzz you in."

The lock on the iron gate clicked open and Mark opened it, indicating Bridget enter before he did. They walked up the paved path to the front door of the house, which opened just as they ascended the stairs.

Louise Barton-Foster was pleased, that much Mark could tell, even though she was the sort of woman who rarely showed it. The slightly upturned corner of her mouth gave it away. "Hello," she said graciously. "So glad you could make it tonight. Bridget, lovely to see you again."

Rather than bristle and assume it was a lie or an attempt at flattery, Bridget appeared to be genuinely pleased by the greeting. "It's nice to see you again, too."

"Well, come on in. Let's get you a drink." She gestured they should follow her into the sitting room.

"Bridget!"

It was Giles, strolling as briskly as he could towards them, then took both of her hands in his and smacked a friendly kiss on her cheek. "Hi," she said.

"Did Mark tell you how much we've missed you?" he asked.

He saw her cheeks go pink. "He did mention it, yes," she said, glancing almost shyly to Mark.

"Oh!" said Giles. "I must introduce you. Hold on." He glanced around, then his eyes lit on their target, a lovely dark-haired woman chatting with Nigel. "Darling, come here," he said, then beckoned her closer with a gesture. As she drew nearer, Giles beamed a smile. "Bridget, Mark, this is Veronica. My wife."

Mark felt his brows go up before he had a chance to control them. "Veronica," he said. "Lovely to meet you at last."

Bridget was grinning too, very broadly. "Indeed, quite a pleasure," she said; he wondered how much of that pleasure was at the knowledge that Rebecca could no longer use Giles for her own machinations. Surely some of it was smug satisfaction that her advice had worked.

"Bridget," said Veronica, extending her hand to take Bridget's. "I've heard so much about you. Thank you so much for everything. I mean…" Her voice lowered. "If it weren't for you, Giles might not even be here right now."

Bridget looked a little embarrassed at the reference to Giles' attempt at overdosing so long ago at Rebecca's place in Gloucestershire. "I only did what anyone else would have for a friend," she said. Even as she said it, Mark thought instantly of Rebecca's petulant behaviour after Giles had been discovered in a delirious, depressed state.

"And of course thank you for your advice," Veronica added. "If not for your encouragement, we might never have patched things up." Giles placed his arm around his wife's shoulders and leaned in to peck her cheek. She smiled and blushed.

"I am so happy I could help," she said.

"Here you are." It was Louise approaching with two drinks in hand. "Red wine for Mark, because he is a man of habit," she said, handing it to him as everyone in earshot chuckled, "and for Bridget… well, I wasn't sure what you might like, but I thought I couldn't go wrong with a champagne cocktail." The second glass was an opaque peachy colour and Bridget looked beyond delighted to receive it.

She took a delicate sip, and made an approving noise. "Delicious. Thank you."

"If I am not mistaken," said Louise, her gaze fixed pointedly at Bridget, "that is a new piece of jewellery you're wearing, is it not?"

Bridget coughed a bit on her drink before realising that Louise was referring to the recently purchased engagement ring. "Oh, yes," she said, smiling up at Mark before holding up her hand to show it off.

"I believe a 'congratulations' is in order," Louise said. She raised her martini up. "To Mark and Bridget, a long and happy life together."

It wasn't until the rest of the crowd repeated the toast, raised their glasses and clinked them against one another that Mark thought Bridget might finally believe she was welcome into their midst despite holding such different opinions from their own. She turned teary eyes up to Mark, then reached up to kiss him amidst polite applause.

"I think," she said quietly as the others moved to continue mingling again, "that I'm more of a leopard than a panther. You know, the sort that doesn't have to change its spots, after all."

He smiled, then slipped his hand along her waist and pulled her close. "Am I a lion," he asked, "or am I a fellow leopard?"

"Neither," she said matter-of-factly. "You're a tiger. But you're _my_ tiger."

At that he chuckled and turned to plant a kiss on her temple, growling softly in her ear as he did so, eliciting a giggle from her. He tightened his grasp on her hip. "Indeed I am."

_The end._


End file.
